


Balance

by deadlybride



Category: Psych
Genre: Badass Gus, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mild D/s, implied depression, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gus has this thing he does for Shawn. It's a little hard to explain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance

**Author's Note:**

> If I remember correctly, this was kind of inspired by a fic called... "Mexico Blue," maybe? I like things about Gus.
> 
> Written in 2008 & originally posted to LJ.

Probably if people knew about them, they wouldn't expect that Shawn always bottomed. It wasn't that Gus was inconsiderate, or anything, or had weird, hetero-issues about letting another guy do things to him. It was just…

Perhaps it would help to set the scene.

Shawn's twisted around the bedclothes, sheets tangled with his knees, twined about ankles, though his feet are sticking out. The comforter is tossed sideways across the bed, so that a swathe preserves some minor modesty, covering hips and part of Shawn's side. Predictably, Shawn sleeps like a crazy person: one arm flung out across the mattress, hand open as though ready to accept a gift, the other arm bundled close to his chest, fingers grazing the hollow of his throat, lax and gentle. His hair is astonishing, spiking out in various directions. But that's usually what Shawn goes for on purpose, so it's not even a problem.

The way his thighs are spread, hips pointing one direction while his back twists the opposite, with his chin tucked down toward his chest, eyelashes girlishly long and brushing his cheeks – it makes him look inviting. Willing. Fuckable.

And it's dirty and wrong to think that about a person, but especially to think that way about your best friend. Gus can't help it, though. It's like he was trained, from some point in his life he can't be bothered to remember, to see Shawn as… something that had to be owned. Shawn would hate to be talked about that way, Gus knows, but just that isn't enough disincentive when he can look at his friend like this.

Because in most of the rest of his life, Shawn's untouchable. He's a marvelous, sparkling creature that is completely free of the restraints which bind so many people to lives they resigned themselves to, not lives they chose. The law bends and melts around Shawn Spencer. Truth is malleable. Shawn decides what shall be and, lo, it becomes. Or, at least, the universe has created a patch of alternate reality around him, so that the impossible becomes obvious and commonplace whenever Shawn needs it – and when he leaves, the world goes back to being ordinary, following all the boring rules it has to have just to counterbalance the possibility that Shawn could arrive to change it all.

There have been times, though, and places, when Shawn couldn't change reality. When what was real refused to surrender to what he wanted. Those times, Gus did what he could to pretend, for Shawn's sake, that his friend's world wasn't crashing and burning around him. He'd pretend that maybe people could learn to love each other again, that things worked out all right in the end. 

The love didn't come back. Things didn't work out. Sometimes, especially after a day of experiencing Shawn's magic, Gus thinks that the only reason things didn't work is because Shawn never really expected them to.

But still – Gus was there. And he's been witness to the few occasions when Shawn doesn't conquer. So he understood when Shawn stumbled into his apartment during college, not crying (because Shawn didn't do that), but close. Gus understood when Shawn sank down onto his bed, head dropping into his hands, and tried to explain about – about the guy. How Shawn went through with it, even though he wasn't comfortable. How it hurt. How – and this was the part where Gus is sure magic was involved, because he didn't run scared – how Shawn wished, the whole time, that it had been someone he knew, that he trusted more than some dude in a bar in Laughlin. When Shawn looked up at him, with a hopeless little smile, Gus could understand when Shawn said that he wished that it had been him.

So, yes, because Shawn asked, he sat next to him on the little twin bed and kissed him, pushed him back into the pillow when he sighed, touched him gently when he spread his legs, pushed when he moaned, wrapped his arms around him when they both finished. Shawn's eyes were already fluttering towards sleep. 

They don't talk about it, not often. Sometimes, Gus will come home from work and Shawn will be waiting. He isn't naked on the bed, because he tries his damnedest to avoid clichés. He's usually on the couch, sitting on the edge, hands tensed around the cushions, looking like the world might come apart if he doesn't – if Gus doesn't –

Times like that, Gus has been conditioned to give Shawn whatever he needs. He tries to be thorough. He has this vague idea that, when Earth tilts backwards on its axis and Shawn slips out of control, maybe if he does everything perfectly it'll stop happening so often. He doesn't want it to end, because ending will mean that Shawn doesn't need him anymore – but he doesn't know if he can handle a world where Shawn's magic doesn't work. He needs to be able to see little miracles, to see that everything can work out, if you believe hard enough. 

Just once, afterward, when Shawn hadn't immediately fallen into sleep, Gus did ask. Why this? They were best friends, had been so forever, but why did he need this thing from Gus? 

Because, Shawn had said.

It was the only explanation Gus would get, but there were things he could extrapolate, when he thought about it.

Last night, Shawn was waiting. The look in his eyes was something desperate and needy, and Gus understood, like he always did. He opened his arms and Shawn crashed into him, swayed into his mouth, pushing Gus's shirt up, then down, then off. While Gus took care of both of their flies, shucking belts and shoes as he directed them safely towards his bedroom, Shawn just held on. His mouth parted so easily under Gus's.

It never took long before Shawn was ready. Sometimes Gus didn't even have to stretch him. Last night was one of those times. Gus only had time to wrestle on the condom and smear lube over himself before Shawn's thighs spread, ankles locking over the small of Gus's back, both hands going to the back of Gus's neck to yank him down into another kiss, whispering, "Now, now," against his tongue, wet and frantic.

He'd left Shawn in bed that morning. There were no murmured complaints, no limp hands pulling him unsuccessfully back into the bed. Shawn just twisted himself more tightly into his coils of blanket and sheet, curling around the warm spot Gus left.

Back to the present. Shawn slept through the first four hours of Gus's route. Gus figures that probably means Shawn didn't sleep at all the night before. Gus wonders what he was doing. Who he was with, maybe. If Shawn ever did find someone he could stand to go on more than one date with (or have sex with more than once), he doesn't think he'd be jealous. It would mean that whatever had gone wrong inside Shawn was fixed. He wouldn't need Gus anymore, but… he'd be better.

Gus takes off his jacket, hangs it neatly in the closet. Shawn needs sex to be strong, and deep. He clings to Gus, shudders with his movements. It's always the same: he falls to his back, Gus between his legs, thrusting as Shawn urges him on with a wet mouth against his throat, clutching fingers at his shoulders, a constant clench and pull of Shawn's legs, wrapped around his, never letting go.

Maybe the price for wrapping reality around your finger is that, sometimes, you have to surrender to someone. You have to let someone see you at your most vulnerable, when you can't sparkle and glitter, smile as wide as marketing could want it. Maybe you have to find someone you trust, and give them everything of yourself – so you can dive back into that gorgeous, wonderful façade, and be what you always wanted to be for everyone else. Let yourself be used so you can use other people with impunity.

By the time his shoes are stowed in their box, Shawn's awake and blinking at him. Gus waits for a sign. He knows he was rougher than usual last night – that was what Shawn had needed, and he always gives Shawn what he needs. The nest of sheets somehow untangles. Shawn pulls that outflung hand back to himself, letting its empty fingers close around a handful of pillow. He doesn't say anything. That's enough of an indication for Gus that last night wasn't enough – it didn't bring him back to himself.

Gus undresses the rest of the way. Shawn's eyes stay on him. They're unnaturally still, quiet. Desperation doesn't appear, which makes Gus question if this really is what Shawn needs – but he's still there when Gus kneels on the mattress beside him, when Gus slides a warm palm up Shawn's arm, the mess of linens falling away before his hand's progress can falter.

He wonders if he should fuck Shawn, considering the night before. They've never played with pain that way. Even if Shawn had asked he doesn't think he could have done it. Perhaps that was why Shawn had never asked. 

He knows that if he does enter Shawn now, it will hurt. There's no way it could not, at least a little. But Shawn doesn't seem to care. Already, his hips are rolling back into their place. They've done this enough times that Gus doesn't hesitate, bracing himself stiff-armed with his hands planted in the meager space between Shawn's sides and his arms, which twine over Gus's shoulders as they meet in a kiss. This morning it isn't as rough. Shawn's lips open smoothly, parting for Gus's tongue, but his fingernails don't dig into Gus's skin. Rather, he's tangling himself around Gus the way he had wrapped himself in Gus's bed.

Gus pulls away for a moment. Shawn isn't arching up towards him, this time. He's still nestled into the hollow his body has made in the bed while Gus finds condom and lube. Shawn is lying still, and quiet, but as soon as Gus's fingers brush his inner thigh his legs spread, easy as magic. His eyes go half-lidded before Gus's finger is even to the second knuckle. They close completely when Gus makes it to the second finger. At the slow entrance of the third, Shawn's watching his face again. Gus kneels when his one arm gets tired – his knee brushes the back of Shawn's thigh and his legs spread farther, instantly, though that wasn't Gus's intent. When he twists the three fingers, letting his hand make a full rotation, Shawn's breath hitches, and Gus can see that the fingers clenching around the pillow have gone white with tension, though Shawn still isn't asking for anything.

It's the work of a moment to slide on the condom and settle Shawn into position. Usually Shawn is already pushing against Gus, demanding – but now he seems content to let Gus hook one of his legs over his arm, to push against the back of the other thigh to leave Shawn completely open. He's more than ready, now.

Gus is careful when he pushes in, but can still see the how much it hurts in the way Shawn's eyes close, the way he arches up into Gus's hands. He'd known that it would be too much, that Shawn must still have been sensitive from the night before. But now an edge of that frantic version of his friend shines through the passive creature Gus prepared. When Gus pushes again, Shawn winces – and slings one arm over the back of Gus's neck, pulls him down into another kiss. Gus obliges, of course, because this is what he does: he becomes an expert on anything he sets his mind to. Pharmaceuticals, coins – even screwing your best friend. He's a master. He pushes a little harder, a little faster, and Shawn makes a violent noise which is absorbed into Gus's mouth. It's not long before Shawn has to rip away, breathing gone loud and ragged, pressing his face into the juncture of Gus's shoulder and throat. This, too, is familiar – and when Shawn finally comes, with a wounded yelp, the hold he still has around Gus's neck drops away and he tightens around Gus like a vise, a frantic clutching and pulse before he loosens, slipping back into the bed, accepting Gus's last thrusts with an expression so astonishing in its blank perfection that Gus almost stops completely, wanting to retain that just a little longer. He does slow, especially this morning, when Shawn has been so lax, and admires his handiwork.

It isn't something he should take pride in, reducing Shawn this way. But then, he thinks of cooking, how when you reduce a wine you distill its most essential flavor, make it something powerful and new. When Shawn is like this, thoroughly fucked, he looks somehow fresh. That last layer of need is stripped away, leaving a person Gus fixes deep in his mind. This person does not sparkle, or weave magic; this person does not claw and clutch and need. This is just… Shawn. And Gus suddenly triggers, because as soon as he thinks it Shawn opens his eyes and looks right at him, with a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. Gus empties himself into Shawn, one hand keeping his hips still for the final few thrusts, and Shawn keeps smiling at him. It's not commercial-perfect, so Gus knows he's done his job.

Shawn's hands pull him down, settle him against his side. Shawn turns in his arms, curling his back into Gus's chest, Gus's still partially-erect penis pushing into the cleft of Shawn's ass.

Shawn always bottoms. It's just that, when Gus pours all of his effort into bringing Shawn away from himself, he doesn't have to work magic. He doesn't have to turn belief into reality. Because everything he needs is right there, above and around and inside him – because cradled between the soft mattress and the protection of Gus's body, the world is kept at bay, and he doesn't have to be anyone. Not even himself.


End file.
